On The Left The Great
Mud Labyrinth Of Metemma Stretches Indefinitely.
Suddenly the firing
stops.
The low scrub in front is alive with the swarming figures of
the enemy. All the flags dance forward together. Ragged white figures
spring up in hundreds. Emirs on horses appear as if by magic. Everywhere
are men running swiftly forward, waving their spears and calling upon the
Prophet of God to speed their enterprise. The square halts. The weary men
begin to fire with thoughtful care, The Dervishes drop thickly. On then,
children of the desert! you are so many, they are so few. They are worn
with fatigue and their throats are parched. You have drunk deeply of
the Nile. One rush will trample the accursed under the feet of the
faithful. The charge continues. A bugle sounds in the waiting square.
The firing stops. What is this? They lose heart. Their ammunition is
exhausted. On, then, and make an end. Again the smoke ripples along the
line of bayonets and fire is re-opened, this time at closer range and
with far greater effect. The stubborn grandeur of the British soldier
is displayed by desperate circumstances. The men shoot to hit. The attack
crumples. The Emirs - horse and man - collapse. The others turn and walk -
for they will not run - sullenly back towards the town. The square starts
forward. The road to the river is open. With dusk the water is reached,
and never have victors gained a more longed-for prize.
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